


The Red-Butted Sock Monkey Of Death

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Humor, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Senslash Fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 09:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim, Blair and a deadly sock monkey on a killing spree.  Can anything stop this un-holey terror?!  Yes, but that's a surprise!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red-Butted Sock Monkey Of Death

## The Red-Butted Sock Monkey Of Death

by Take The Fifth

The Sentinel, and all its characters, are the property of Pet Fly Productions, UPN and Paramount. Not us. All of us are broke, so don't bother sueing unless you want IOU's.

A very warped story by three people who are in dire need of professional help. If you take The Sentinel seriously, *bail now*!! If you think Jim and Blair (Blair, at least), have a sense of humor, read on.

* * *

**THE RED-BUTTED SOCK MONKEY OF DEATH**

OR 

**WITH GRAPE, YOU GET EGGROLL**

"Stay back, Chief," ordered Jim Ellison in a commanding tone. Jaw muscle jumping like a flea on a hotplate, he threw out an arm to block the gruesome sight from the man behind him. 

It was too little, too late, and with an inward sigh, the big detective heard the subtle signs that his lover/Guide had caught a glimpse of the carnage strewn around the room: the rapid tattoo of the beloved heart beat; the shallow, harsh respiration; the wet sounds of hurled breakfast hitting the fine Corinthian leather of the love seat in the corner. 

Resisting the urge to step closer (if he had gotten any closer, Ellison would have been on the _other_ side of the smaller man), he asked quietly, "You okay, there, Chief?" 

"Yeah, yeah," gulped Sandburg, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, which he promptly stuck in the other man's pocket. Raising his ashen face, he directed wide, darkened teal-colored eyes at his partner. "It wasn't the blood and guts all over the place, I swear! It's just that..." 

"I know, baby; I know," soothed the hulking cop softly. "It's always worse when it's someone you know." He spared another look at the mess which had once been a human being, and shuddered. As used as he was to scenes of random violence, this one was even getting to _him_ and he hadn't even liked Cassie Welles. The body of Cascade PD's forensic chief and resident slut was scattered across the room, in pieces even smaller than her miniskirts. 

"No, Jim--you don't understand!" whined Blair, sweeping his loose, curly chestnut locks behind his ear with one sturdy, masculine hand. "I told you it's not that! Look at the shirt she's wearing; it's mine! She borrowed it last week and now look at it... I'll _never_ get all the gore out--not even if I soak it in baking soda and peroxide for a year!" Overwhelmed at the loss of his favorite Day-Glo, tie-dyed, smilely-face tee shirt, Sandburg burst into tears. 

Patting his shoulder sympathetically as he absently handed back the vomit-stained handkerchief, Ellison frowned in deep thought. There was something not quite right here...something odd... The murder scene seemed almost familiar, almost as if he'd seen it all before... 

Covertly studying himself in one corner of the blood-splattered mirror, Sandburg checked to make sure his recent crying jag had not left him with an unattractive red nose or swollen eyes. Being thus occupied, it wasn't until he turned away that he discovered the beautifully muscled mass of his lover standing immobile in the center of the room. 

"Jim, you okay there, man?" he questioned uncertainly. True, Ellison was standing there, staring blankly ahead, with a glazed look in the cornflower blue eyes and his mouth half open, giving him the appearance of a slow-witted sloth, but Blair could see nothing out of character. 

Going up to him, he softly called his lover's name again, touching him hesitantly at the same time. When there was no response, Sandburg knew Jim had zoned. Jim always reacted violently--and ardently--to being touched _there_ , claiming it was one of his most sensitive erogenous zones. Personally, Blair had never known anyone else who insisted the left nostril was a major turn-on, but as an anthropologist, he knew it took all kinds to make a world. 

Calling on four years of experience as Ellison's Guide, coupled with his soul-deep love for the man, Sandburg leaned in closer, breathing gently. Closer...closer...judging his distance to the millimeter... 

"JIM!" he screamed into his partner's defenseless ear. He then waited patiently for the larger man to peel himself off the ceiling and quit shaking, idly amusing himself by counting body parts while Ellison dashed out to change his trousers. 

Meeting the other man at the door when Ellison came back in, he asked, "What is it, Jim? What made you zone?" 

Gladdened that the ringing in his ears had dropped to two beats per word, Ellison answered, "It's this murder, Chief. I knew I'd seen something like it before. I was concentrating so hard on remembering, that I must've zoned out." 

"You mean this has happened before?!" yelped Sandburg, looking around nervously. He had never cared for serial killers, always being terrified that, one day, the fiend would come looking for his favorite box of Fruit Loops. "Why the hell didn't you put this maniac away?" 

"I did, Chief," responded Ellison grimly, jaw muscle doing the Charleston once again. "Or I thought I did. He must've escaped." A haunted look came into his eyes, and he reached out, grabbing Sandburg's wide shoulders tightly. 

"We have to stop him, Chief--we _have_ to! It's only going to get worse and worse..." He shuddered again, closing his eyes. "Oh, the humanity!" 

"Jim! Who is it?" cried Blair, even more frightened than he had been when the vibrator had shorted out on him in the bath tub. "Who is this fiend?!" 

Jaw muscle twitching madly, mouth working, it was several minutes before Ellison could choke out, "TRBSMOD." 

"Huh?" queried Sandburg, looking more confused than usual. 

Ellison took another deep breath, centering himself. "The Red-Butted Sock Monkey Of Death." 

"NO!!!!!" screamed Blair, breaking into hysterical sobs. He wailed; he howled; he beat his chest and rent his clothes...except for the smiley-face shirt so tragically murdered. Through it all, Jim held his lover, stroking his wet cheeks, murmuring sweet words of comfort, and when no one was looking, groping the younger man's groin. 

Blair sobbed for the longest time, and when finally his weeping subsided into the occasional hiccup and a series of sniffles (which he wiped on Jim's sleeve), he looked up at his lover and asked in a frightened voice, "Just what _is_ a Red-Butted Sock Monkey Of Death, anyway?" 

Jim paled, but managed to find his voice. "Some say it's a legend, Chief; but I know for a fact--it's real. When I was a rookie, I was assigned to a murder case with an old cop named Ben Dover. He was a wicked old guy, full of tall tales, and once cold and lonely night, he cuddled me close..." 

"Cuddled you close?" Blair asked. 

"Umm, I mean, he told me from across the room," Jim said, diverting his lover's suspicions with a quick kiss. "He'd told me of an old woman and how she had been robbed by a gang of sheep-herders..." 

"Sheep-herders? Jim, are you _sure_ about this story?" Blair demanded. "I mean, this sounds kinda farfetched." 

"Just listen, Chief. Now, this old woman had never married and had no children. All she'd ever had was a little stuffed monkey her mother had made out of a sock when she was a child." Ellison lowered his voice, causing Blair to lean closer. "She loved that toy--named it `Spanky'. Well, one night, these roving sheep-herders were causing trouble in Cascade. They were drinking and cussing, and tossing midgets. The old woman ran an adult video store and one of the gang came in looking for `Scooby Does The Gang'. When the old woman told him it had already been rented, he went nuts! He rampaged through the place; his gang helped him destroy the whole store, and in the end, the old woman lay dying." 

Blair's sniffles grew louder; he _hated_ sad stories. Jim had forbidden him to rent `Bambi' after a week-long crying jag. "That's...that's so sad!" Sandburg wailed. 

"It gets worse, Chief," Jim told him. "As the old woman lay dying, she held the sock monkey to her breast and cursed the gang." 

"What did she say, Jim?" 

"She said, `I curse you.'" 

"Oh. That wasn't very dramatic, was it, Jim?" 

"She was dying, Sandburg! What did you expect? It wasn't like she had time to channel the ghost of Hamlet's father or anything!" Ellison wiped away another tear which trickled from his lover's eyes. "Anyway, the point is, when the cops got there, they found three members of the gang dead and one gibbering like an idiot. He swore the sock monkey had come to life, screamed `I am the Red-Butted Sock Monkey Of Death!', and killed the others." 

Blair shivered, pulling himself further into Jim's embrace. "And know it kills people?" 

"Not just anyone, Blair," Jim comforted. "The Red-Butted Sock Monkey Of Death only kills..." 

"...little old ladies in their eighties?" the anthropologist suggested with a smirk, nudging the cop in the ribs with his elbow. 

"Poet, and don't know it, eh, Chief?" chuckled the Sentinel, ruffling his Guide's curls before Blair could jerk his head away. 

"Jim! You know I _hate_ people messing with my hair!" 

That pitiful whine just made the cop at his side sigh. 

"So--tell me more!" Blair impatiently pumped his friend for information. 

"More?" 

"Yeah; like details! How does the perp commit the murder? What kind of weapon was used? Anything unusual about this case...?" 

Ellison glared at the non-stop line of questions, not in the mood for the third degree. But Blair, being his partner, needed to know. "A shoe." He gave up the vital detail reluctantly with a serious expression. 

"What was that, Big Guy?" 

"I said--the sick sock used a shoe as a murder weapon! The victims had sole marks all over the head and neck! Bludgeoned to death!" 

Blair kept a straight face...barely. "Pretty `severe', huh? Nikes, you think?" He was enjoying his own play on words. 

Ellison pretended not to hear. Like a Sentinel could really do that! 

"You know...shoe...severe...as in Nike Severe..." Blair started to explain, then his face took on a warm glow. "Go on! You know!" He gave the cop's shoulder a fake punch. 

"A woman lost her life here, Sandburg!" 

Seemingly put in his place, the kid nodded. "Least the sock coulda done was used a high heel!" He burst out laughing, unable to control his giggles any longer. 

"Cruel, Chief!" the detective sniffed, refusing to join in. Then, he got down to police work. "All kidding aside, Simon and I expect this monkey-butt character to kill again, soon. Sometime before May 20th. He's an avid couch potato, his face stuck to a TV set most nights." 

"When he's not killing innocent people!" qualified the TA. 

"Yeah. We figured he killed Cassie after seeing her perform. This monkey's a real critic!" 

"Aren't they all!" Sandburg covered his face with both hands. 

"Anyway, we believe the monkey's next target will be the top executive of UPN. Some schmuck by the name of Valentine." 

"Oh, yeah...I heard about him at the university! A friend of mine is studying these executive types to determine if they have any intelligence, and if they do, why they never seem to use that capacity." 

"Valentine's taking classes, is he?" 

"Nah; not to say he doesn't need some smarts! This guy isn't exactly an innocent, Jim. Why do you think the Red-Butted Monkey will go after him?" 

"Somebody should, don't you think?" 

"Well...yeah... I mean, but...this guy's dangerous!" Thinking about what he'd heard about this exec made Sandburg shudder. 

"So is the monkey!" the Sentinel assured his little buddy. 

"So what are we gonna do?" Sandburg asked plaintively, hoping vainly, that his Sentinel--big, bold, buff Jim, protector of the innocent (and not so innocent, Blair reminded himself with a smirk, remembering the activities that had taken the place of breakfast that morning, most mornings, come to that!)--would turn his back on the this case, and hand it over to someone else. Anyone else! He turned his best puppy-dog eyes on. 

Catching the look, Jim swayed toward his partner; the familiar mongoose-mesmerized-by-a-snake feeling sweeping over him as he fell into those blue, blue eyes. All thoughts of the Red-Butted Sock Monkey Of Death vanished without a trace as his mind, all too happily diverted, wondered whether anyone would notice the lead investigator and his partner disappearing from a bloody crime scene for a quick one in the nearest broom cupboard. 

Just as Jim's hand was about to snag his partner's belt--Blair had a minor objection to Caveman Jim dragging him away by his hair--a voice boomed from behind him. Jim leapt like a scalded cat. 

"So, what are you gonna do then, Detective?" 

"Simon! Ah... Umm..." The Sentinel scrambled to make his brain work again; difficult to do when all the blood was gathering elsewhere in his body. "Umm, call in expert help," he finally proclaimed, desperate to give any answer that would get him away from the scene and into that cupboard. 

"Expert?" Blair and Simon chorused together. As far as they were concerned, Jim _was_ the expert. On everything. Blair sometimes wondered just how first-hand Simon's knowledge of Jim's expertise was, but always hastily pushed the thought away before his mouth decided to act without his brain (not an entirely uncommon happenstance), and ask for a demonstration from the two bigger men. 

His head a Ping-Pong ball, Jim looked back and forth at the two men who gazed at him with eyes of utter confidence. He was alphabetically working his way through every deity he knew to get himself out of the corner he had painted himself into. He'd made it all the way up to the G's--some tribal goddess that Sandburg had lectured him about the last time he'd ordered a cheeseburger, medium rare--before he fell down. Mentally making himself a note to make the two of them stand together the next time he needed to look at them both, he shook his head. He was halfway through trying to pick himself up and get back to his feet, when a swirl of material in the doorway behind Simon caught his eye. Mesmerized, he laid there, stunned. 

It took a couple of seconds for the Captain of Major Crimes to realize that Jim wasn't in one of his usual fugue states. The glassy eyes and gaping like a dead fish routine had thrown him for a second, but the whiny sounds that usually only starred in his `Captain and Cabin-boy Jim' fantasies were something entirely different. 

"What is it, Jim?" The larger, even more buff, man grabbed his submissive's...umm, subordinate's...shoulder. 

Gulping, Jim tried to get a complete word out. "Naomi!" 

The Guide instinct in him making him throw himself almost on top of Jim (no other reason! Blair told himself sternly), the anthropologist turned almost-cop ran searching hands over his semi-supine partner. Looking up at Simon with melting, tear-filled eyes, he sobbed, "Simon!" He made sure to hit just the right note so that both bigger men shivered. "He's hallucinating!" 

"No, Chief," Jim interjected, pointing a shaky--but still manly--hand between Simon's legs. "I mean...it's Naomi!" Leaning back into the smaller, but still wonderfully muscled form behind him, Jim moved his head to the side, clearing his life-partner's line of sight. The sound of his head hitting the floor the second time that night drowned out the delighted squeal of the man that was now making a beeline for the door. 

"Mom!" 

Accepting the dark hand that appeared in his again rapidly re-clearing vision, Jim let himself be hauled to his feet, ruefully rubbing the lump on the back of his head. "Naomi?" 

Breezing through the door, absolutely unmindful of the scattered bits of Cassie cluttering up the floor, Naomi--call me a child of the 60's--Sandburg wafted into the room; her clothes somehow clinging and billowing around her at the same time. 

"Sweetie!" she returned, letting her son pick her up and swing her with abandon. She was still freshly coifed and undisturbed when Blair set her back on her feet. 

"Mom!" Blair exclaimed again. "What are _you_ doing here?" 

Carefully stepping over the bits of intestine--Jim wasn't entirely sure if the bigger stuff wasn't mostly spine--Naomi made her way over to the other two men, pausing to pat Jim, and then Simon, on the cheek. Tilting her head a bit to one side, the tall red-headed woman gave Blair a look that Jim recognized from a mile away. Its twin was directed at him almost every day since the anthropologist by his side had come into his life. 

"Well, honey; I was passing through town and I felt a disturbance in your aura. I knew you were either involved in another of your messy little cases, or you'd been eating too much red meat. And...well...here I am!" 

Halfway into giving his mother-in-law a hug, Jim was distracted. His hearing focused in on a slight dragging sound that no one--except The Sentinel of the Great City--could have heard. His face a sculpture of horror, yet still maintaining that haunting look of perfection he kept by hours of mirror work every day, Jim dragged his eyes upward, piggybacking his sight up through the suspended ceiling over their heads. 

"Jim?" He heard the plucky, yet worried, query from his lover somewhere on the edge of his consciousness. 

Pulling his weapon--and then picking it up off the floor--Jim pushed Naomi into Simon's arms. Pulling his Guide behind him, he began firing rounds into the speckled asbestos over their heads. Screaming, he tried to warn the rest of the room. "It's in the ceiling! Holy Christ...it's over our heads!" 

The room erupted. Somehow, through the dust and the bodies and the flying ceiling panels, Jim Ellison saw a sight he would never forget. Standing, seemingly impervious in the middle of the room, Naomi suddenly charged the horrifying monstrosity that swung down through the ceiling panels. She was just out of his range and ignored his cries to stop and come back. It was horrible. It was awful. It was as good as an excuse as any. 

Turning on a dime, Jim grabbed Blair...somehow getting a good bit of Simon in the process. Pressing his hands into the wild curls that clung to his partner's head, he thought it was awfully nice of Simon to try and protect him from flying objects with his hand like that. 

But what did his captain think was going to hit him on the butt? 

Unable to filter out the sounds, Jim heard every crash, clatter, and thud that echoed out of the tiny breakfast nook. Each sound from behind the screen at the other end of the room echoed in a shudder that coursed through the oh-so-delightful, but still manly, body he held close to his chest. 

Blair was screaming and trying to push him off. "Mom! Mom!! Oh, gods, Jim; lemme go! Mom...noooooo!" wailed Blair. "Oh, Mom; no!" he sobbed as Jim held him close. 

Then, as quickly as it had started... 

It was quiet. 

_Too_ quiet. 

And the awful, certain outcome of exactly what they were going to find washed over the three men sandwiched together. One of whom was trying to figure out just exactly why he'd been trying so hard to get away. 

Suddenly awash with guilt, the curly-headed filling of the upright Sandburg sandwich, oozed from between the two stud-muffins who'd been holding him on his feet. Missing the flurry of arms and legs and hands he'd left behind, he turned and stared. Stared at the still standing, but really _ugly_ decorating-mistake-from-Hell screen that was obstructing the view that he knew awaited him. 

"Blair?" his ever-present lifemate whispered behind him. "Stay here, buddy. I'll go check." 

"No, Jim." Blair shook his head. The light which glinted off his curls made the crime scene personnel stop in their tracks and look. "She's...my Mom," the observer choked. "I'll...I'll go...look." 

"Look for what, Sweetie?" 

Gasping, all three men turned, looking as though they'd seen a ghost. Or as close as they were going to get to it...mystical episodic television notwithstanding. 

"Mom!!" 

"Naomi???" 

Blair's yelp was a bit higher than the others. He jumped and ran, stopping a few feet from the lithe woman that none of them had expected to see alive again. 

Naomi grinned, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that her frock was now re-accessorized with a dusting of grey and red threads. She was smiling...from ear to ear. One of which she dropped back onto the floor when she realized it wasn't her own. 

"Mom!" Blair rushed forward. Grabbing and hugging his mother, he twirled her around in his arms. 

Jim approached Naomi cautiously, now more than ever, wondering just _what_ his mother-in-law did when she disappeared for months on end. "How? I mean...why...?" 

Naomi reached up and patted her son's significant other on the cheek, sidestepping the question as she always did. She smiled that radiant smile that, more and more, Jim thought ought to be classified as a secret government weapon everytime it was used on him. 

"Now, boys. Now that that's all been taken care of, what say we all go back to the loft and have a little dinner?" 

"But, Naomi..." stuttered Jim, never one to give up when circumstances called for it. "How did you...?" 

"Why, Jim! You ought to know there are just some things it's not really polite to ask." She pinned him with that look even _he_ could recognize. "Go on, dears...Sweetie...I'll be out in a just a moment." 

Watching Blair lead Jim and Simon out of the crime scene, Naomi went back to the kitchen and picked up her bag, slinging the oversized leather carryall over her shoulder. Her eyes, which never really missed a thing, scanned over the few people remaining at the scene as she listened to her son lecture as he waited out in the hall. A sweet look of serenity passed over her face as she looked down and adjusted a few things. Her finger ran a quick circle over the small pin she usually wore somewhere discreet. The initials she really didn't need to read any more, rose up to rub over the pad of her finger: KOTRBSMOD. 

Letting her smile go a little wider, she patted the small head that raised up out of her purse for a second before it popped back down. She zipped the handbag closed, looking for all the world as if she didn't have a care in the world. Not an easy thing to do with little bits of lint covering you from head to toe. Not to mention, tiny pieces of red goo that marred the shoes that were new just last week. 

Making her way to the front door of the now renter-less apartment, she `accidentally' ran her shin into the morgue gurney waiting to be taken out the door. It looked as if she'd stumbled and mistakenly hit the edge of the cart. Mumbling, she murmured low words at the bag that rested on the gurney. Not noticing, since she was facing away from the door, how one person's head jerked up and looked at her, askance. 

"That'll teach you to come sniffing after _my_ son-in-law, you insipid, wretched, unprofessional, badly-dressed, no-talent bitch!" She accepted that bit of negative karma with a sigh. 

Turning, she floated toward the door, taking a moment to wonder just why Jim was looking at her the way he was. Then, putting it behind her without a thought, she slid her hand onto Simon's offered arm as she preceded her son and Jim down the hall. Smiling up into the handsome Captain's face, she felt her bag shift on her hip. 

"So, what do you say, dears? Some tongue? I have an early morning flight to Los Angeles..." 

Sometimes, the Keeper Of The Red-Butted Sock Monkey Of Death had a very busy schedule. She ran a quick mental list. Why, she still had Ally, Felicity, Dharma and Greg, as well as the whole cast of Dawson's Creek to get to before she could rest. 

Yep, this was proving to be a _very_ busy season. 

April 1999 

* * *

End The Red-Butted Sock Monkey Of Death by Take The Fifth: NeedACon@aol.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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